Dear Universe

by Florence Gonsalves

  I force everything in my body to work harder as I approach the red octagon, my orange sneakers blurring with the dark pavement, and the curb of the sidewalk shaking back and forth. Just as I’m starting to taste iron in my mouth, I reach it. With a grunt and a jump, I slap the top of the stop sign and run a bit past it as my legs slow down.

  “You win,” Gene pants, slapping the stop sign too. He jogs over and pretends to bump into me. “Excuse me, excuse me,” he says.

  “You let me win,” I gasp, and push him toward the road. A car goes by and catches us in its headlights, kissing. The kissing makes it kind of hard to breathe, but breathing easy is boring anyway.

  “Come on,” I groan, grabbing his cold spandexed butt and taking off.

  For a few seconds I’m ahead of him, charging toward the traffic light, but then he catches up with me, a few strides here, and then he’s ahead of me.

  “Wait!” I call as the light turns green and the stopped car drives off and the pom-pom on Gene’s hat bobs away. “Wait,” I call again, but I can’t catch up, so I just keep running as fast as I can after him.

  3

  Days ’til prom: 100

  ON THE MORNINGS WHEN MY HAIR IS OBEDIENT, I HAVE EXTRA time before school to tend to the thing under my bed. Don’t worry; it’s not a monster. Maybe I am too romantic, but since that day with Gene in gym, I’ve been keeping a cardboard box there for all the sweet debris of senior year: movie stubs, the moldy daffodil Gene got me for my birthday in November, Polaroid pictures Abigail took of us, the fangs Gene and I wore trick-or-treating even though some old man said we were too old to be trick-or-treating, a Milk Dud, some sample perfume, and an unopened condom with red flames on it that says In case things get hot. It’s not that I’m a pack rat or a scrapbooker or a hoarder. It’s that right now we kind of have a kingdom here in the universe of rare and regular high school experiences. Maybe I’m too sentimental, or maybe one day when I’m old and life is bankrupt of adventures and my memory is even worse than a goldfish’s with Alzheimer’s, I will take this box out and remember. I’ll touch the black Ticonderoga and know what it was like to be bored out of my freaking mind in Calc until Gene walks by and throws his pencil at me and suddenly every bacteria in my gut is alive. I’ll remember how it felt to make videos with Abigail and laugh until we wet her bed. Maybe the deep purple paint on the box will be chipped and the glow-in-the-dark stars will be peeling off, but I’ll look inside and know that every single moment of senior year mattered.

  Obviously, I haven’t told anyone about this. The only thing more embarrassing than having something like this is having something like this that is mostly full of notes I’ve written to myself. This is the note I wrote in August that started it all:

  Dear Universe,

  I was sifting through the catalog of potential high school experiences, and I’ve decided to place an order for something just a little amazing. I want a yearbook signed you rock, don’t change by everyone except for my best friend, who basically writes my living eulogy, and my high school sweetheart, who runs out of pages with his x’s and o’s. I want to go to prom with said high school sweetheart, and he will remember to get me a corsage. I want to get invited to a party. I want to spend most nights with Abigail, eating pizza and looking for stars in her driveway. (Not with Hilary. Hilary can find a new friend, thank you very much.) I want to look back and remember like four things from senior year: the first beer I drink (which is bound to happen soon, right?), the first boy I kiss (also bound to happen soon, right?), the entire month abroad wreaking havoc on the world under the guise of charity during Senior Volunteer Trip, and that sweet, sweet time (prom night?) when I do it. I have a feeling sex is one of those things that just lifts us up. And with prom and graduation and everything happening, we are happening. This is it, you know? What do you need from me to make something just a little amazing happen, Mama Universe? A PO box?

  Post-breakfast text exchange with Abigail, Hilary, and me, even though I should be at the bus stop freezing my sweet little nips off:

  A A Friday with a party attached to it is literally orgasmic.

  Please don’t literally orgasm at his party. C

  H Ya… remember when Danika got really drunk on Halloween and took her clothes off and sat in the middle of Doug’s kitchen?

  Poor thing. C

  A My brother got us alc btw!!!

  What kind? C

  H Who cares as long as it gets us drunk?

  Quick survey: Is Gene gonna ask-cute me to prom? C

  H Honestly girl I doubt it

  How about will we do it? C

  H Def more likely

  A Nah, I think you’re saving it ’til prom

  Hehe C

  Can’t the school day just be a freaking pal and finish with itself already C

  A Patience, young grasshopper. Good things come to those who wait.

  And those who carry a red condom? C

  Selfie in the hall between Calc and Spanish that totally encapsulates my mood for the year: Abigail’s sunglasses covering seven-eighths of my face, Gene’s striped tie wrapped on my head like a bow, Mr. Garcia in the background with his mouth open, about to give me a warning for (a) dress code violation, (b) cell phone violation, and (c) chewing gum in school.

  #senioritis

  “Hurry up, everyone,” Evelyn, our English teacher, says as Abigail and I just make it to our desks when the bell for last period finally rings. We always sit in the front row at Abigail’s request, I guess so she can pay attention or something. For the most part I watch the water stain on the ceiling develop into something that looks like a piece of toast with Jesus on it.

  “Speaking of sex,” Evelyn starts, even though no one was speaking of sex. She’s interrupted by a bright red tutu that squeezes through the door and nearly knocks her over. It’s attached to Brendan, the guy who always dances around like it’s Swan Lake up in the Gill School.

  “Pardon meeeee,” he sings as he bounces in and takes his seat in the back, the tutu standing out over his uniform like a mighty plea for fun in this penal institution called school.

  “Try to be on time.” Evelyn grimaces, closing the door with a loud click. Her hair is freshly buzzed, and her bright yellow pantsuit makes her look like that guy Curious George is always running from. “As I was saying, sex.” She pauses dramatically with her hands on her hips. “Drugs,” she adds with a devious eyebrow wiggle. “And rock and roll. Can anyone tell me what’s missing there?”

  “Sounds like everything to me,” Abigail says, and people laugh.

  “PHILOSOPHY!” Evelyn exclaims, then grins maniacally. The thing to know about Evelyn is that she’s actually a thirty-year-old piece of quinoa who thinks students and teachers are “equals.” This is why she lets us swear and call her by her first name and talk about things like sex, drugs, and rock and roll.

  “But, Evelyn,” Evelyn says, with mock wonder, “what do risky business and illicit substances have to do with pondering the meaning of life?” She whips a piece of chalk out of her breast pocket and faces the moldy olive chalkboard, a relic of the Gill School’s early days that Evelyn couldn’t part with when it made its way to the dumpster. Twice. “Contrary to public opinion, philosophy did not expire in ancient Greece. If you get philosophy down to one of its basic definitions—” She takes out another piece of chalk and scrawls: study of knowledge, reality and existence. “We’re just thinking about thinking and living: how we know what we know, what human experience really is, the birth of an existential crisis, the death of God, et cetera.”

  “Rest in peace, God,” Brendan sings from the back corner.

  “Shut up, loser,” someone mutters from the side of the room.

  “Who said that?” Evelyn’s eyes dart around. We all look at one another, knowing no one is going to own up to it. “If I hear anything else, everyone will have a detention,” Evelyn warns. We shift in our seats and she lets it go. It’s not that Brendan’s a bad singer—I actually secretly like
his voice, from the falsetto to the husky low notes—but it’s annoying that he’s not more self-conscious. Play by the rules of social convention, dammit.

  “Pondering life is a big order, so we gotta start somewhere smaller and more manageable,” Evelyn says, leaning against the board. “We’re gonna start with ourselves. What we believe, what our motivations are, how our spirit is.” She rests a hand over her heart. “How amped are y’all?” There are unenthusiastic sounds from the rows of people behind us, but particularly from the guys in the corner who have hockey practice before school. They mostly just grunt.

  “Evelyn, this is so boring,” Travis from the hockey team complains, his face smooshed so far into his hand that his words come out a little muffled. “Who wants to think about this stuff? You said we were gonna talk about sex, drugs, and rock and roll.”

  Evelyn makes her way over to the other side of the room, then faces us. “All right, Travis, since you asked, here’s how we’re gonna connect the two. If the ethos of the seventies was sex, drugs, and rock and roll, what’s the ethos of today?”

  She scans the room with her eyes wide, probing us for answers, or maybe hoping that we’ll give a shit. “What does ethos even mean?” Travis asks.

  “The spirit and the beliefs of a time,” Abigail says, doodling absentmindedly.

  “Uh, do we even have one of those?” Danika asks, and everyone laughs.

  “Yes, great question!” Evelyn says a little too excitedly. “This is what philosophy’s all about! You know what? Everyone, get into groups of four,” she says, clapping her hands together. “We’re going to start talking to each other and asking this question. Is there a spirit or a belief today in your generation? This is how great philosophy starts! Quickly, now, everyone up!” Evelyn says, urging us up with big waves of her hands. “What are the spirit and the beliefs of today, or even just of the senior class, your friend group, you. And if it is sex, drugs, and rock and roll, please say I have a friend… so I don’t get fired. Go, go, go!”

  The classroom erupts into a cacophony of metal on floor. I scoot toward Abigail like a dog rubbing its butt on the carpet, and we’re joined by two more desks: on the left, a skinny boy named Marquis, with a tuba case by his chair; on the right, a guy named Jared, who Abigail used to have a crush on.

  “How is this English class?” Jared whispers with disbelief.

  Abigail leans into the circle and lowers her voice. “Evelyn gets away with subjecting us to her college major because the Gill School loves her.” Then she puts her arm around me. “Just think of what you would’ve missed if you hadn’t been kicked out of public school for explosive anger that bordered on—”

  “Definitely tell everyone my life story, Abigail,” I say sarcastically.

  “She punched a bus window at a girl and almost blinded her,” Abigail says matter-of-factly. She can’t help herself. She loves having an audience.

  “That’s pretty badass,” Marquis says, fingers twitching like he’s playing an invisible tuba that none of us can hear. “What’d the girl do to deserve your fist?”

  Abigail laughs. “Wait, I never even asked you that, Cham. I just thought it was hilarious that you got kicked out of public school.”

  I sit on my hand to keep it from twitching with muscle memory. “She was just being an asshat,” I say dismissively. Do you have a PhD in the field of neurological medicine, Ava-of-the-complicated-orthodontic-situation? Then maybe don’t spend half of our field trip giving my dad a dismal prognosis of Parkinson’s disease that ends with and then he’ll die!

  I feel someone behind me, so I turn around. Brendan’s standing between our cluster of desks and the cluster of desks next to us. Unfortunately, that’s what happens when there’s an odd number of people: Someone gets left out.

  “Here, join this group,” Evelyn says to Brendan, and they both walk over to us.

  We move our desks around to make room for him, and Evelyn points at me. “Take it away, Cham. What’s the ethos of the time?”

  “Um.” I preach to the high heavens about running socks on Twitter, but ask me to tell someone something in real life and I have laryngitis of the soul. “Compost?”

  She laughs. “Okay, I’ll take it. Now, let’s go smaller. What’s the ethos of the senior class?”

  “Work hard, play hard,” Marquis pipes up. He shakes his head, and his braids fall over his face.

  Evelyn nods, then looks back at me. “How about you personally? What’s your ethos? What makes your life really good?”

  I picture Gene’s lips. Making out.

  “Cham likes running,” Abigail prods.

  “All right, I’ll stop torturing Cham. What’s your ethos, Abigail?”

  Abigail chugs her arms, and her fabulous boobs move around in her blouse. “Dance like a mother-effing—”

  “I hope Mr. Garcia doesn’t walk by,” Evelyn interrupts. “Anyone else? We’re running out of time.” She eyes the clock and mutters something about the fallacy of linear time. “Has everyone had a chance to say something?”

  “Brendan hasn’t gone yet,” Jared says, gesturing toward Brendan in a friendly way, as if he didn’t just throw him under the bus. “Did you want to say something, dude?”

  Brendan undoes his elastic and fixes his man bun, which he grew over the summer. When senior year started, hardly anyone recognized him. I think it kinda suits him.

  “My ethos is to get weird and stay silly.” He rubs his hands on his tutu, and the fabric crunches together. “I wanna heal the world with laughter.”

  I look up from my desk and we accidentally make eye contact. His brown eyes are all parts confidence, no parts self-doubt. None of us say anything. The silence in our group is heightened by the noise of the groups around us packing up their bags before the bell rings.

  “That’s beautiful, Brendan,” Evelyn says, clapping her hands and addressing the whole class before she lets us out.

  “Good work today, ” she says. “We’ll keep going next class. Oh, and for the few of you still writing your college essay for rolling admission, I need a draft in two weeks.” She makes ominous eye contact with me. “I know rolling admission doesn’t have a specific deadline, but I do need a finished assignment from you. Can the people who signed up to tutor please raise their hands?”

  Brendan puts his hand up and so does Abigail. “God help you,” I whisper to her.

  “No, God help you.”

  “Great, thanks,” Evelyn says, brushing some chalk off her hands. “Reach out if you need essay help. Everyone else, be working on your independent book projects. And, oh okay, fine. Have a great weekend,” she says, surrendering to the sound of the bell and the whole room hopping up. I’ve almost tasted sweet freedom when she waves me over. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

  “Sure.” I zip my bag and join her at her desk.

  “I just wanted to give you some more feedback on your essay. Did you get a chance to work on it since we last talked?”

  I look down at my combat boots, which are my “single item of chosen sartorial individuality” that Gill School allows on Fridays. “Um…”

  “Never mind, don’t answer that.” She takes a folder from her desk drawer, then hands me the printed copy of my essay. It’s floppy in my hand, and each sentence is so covered in red ink she might as well have slaughtered the alphabet. God, it’s mortifying to reread myself, but I can’t not read it.

  Dear College Admissions Person,

  It was just a minor setback, getting kicked out of public school at the end of eighth grade, but I’ve definitely come out on the other side of it.

  “It’s a good start,” Evelyn says, leaning toward me. Her amorphous squiggly metal earrings jangle against her second set of amorphous squiggly metal earrings. “But I don’t know that you really want to open with a misdemeanor. Also, the essay can’t end a few paragraphs later with And everything’s good now.

  She points to a particularly ink-gory paragraph, and I nudge my essay away from her. I
pretend to examine it, but I know exactly what it says. It includes the phrase overcame my anger amidst a pit of stress balloons.

  “It’s great how you learned to be in control of your emotions,” she says gently, “but your essay doesn’t really go anywhere. There’s no lesson here.” She leans back in her rolling chair as if we’re two friends shooting the shit. In reality we’re one teacher and one student who can’t seem to give a shit. “The college essay can be about tapioca pudding as long as it shows you, the real you. What makes you different? What are you passionate about? What have you learned in the past seventeen years?”

  She peers into my soul. I peer at the clock. “Ummmm, I guess I don’t really know.”

  “Would you be opposed to choosing a new topic?” she asks hesitantly. “Maybe getting some tutoring?”

  “Yeah, good idea,” I say, unzipping my backpack and carefully placing this little number in the one binder I put all my schoolwork in.

  She purses her lips. “I’ll send you some of the Common App questions,” she says. “Maybe you can work on it this weekend and send me the first paragraph?”

  I stand up with a sigh. “Honestly, Evelyn, I just can’t bring myself to do homework on the weekend. It crushes my soul,” I say with a hand over my heart. “And given the fragility of my soul in the first place—”

  “Cham,” Evelyn says in a warning tone. “You know you have to pass this class to graduate, and go on Senior Volunteer Trip and move on with your life, right?”

  I bow my head and knit my eyebrows together with the hopes of seeming studious. “Okay, I’ll try to get it done.”

  Evelyn stands and walks me to the door. “Cham, you’re a teacher’s nightmare,” she says with a smile. “So smart and so unwilling to apply yourself.”